Page 19

Kira

" Y ou're holding your breath again, kisa ," Mikhail's cousin Vanya says, circling me like a hawk assessing its prey. His accent is thicker than Mikhail's, the vowels rounder, more Russian than Brooklyn. "You must breathe through the shot. Like this."

He demonstrates with his own weapon, inhaling slowly, then releasing half his breath before squeezing the trigger.

The crack of the gunshot echoes through the underground firing range beneath the Zhukov estate.

The paper target at the end of the lane shudders, a fresh hole appearing precisely where the silhouette's heart would be.

"Now you," he commands, stepping back.

Yuri—my ever-present bodyguard, with shoulders like granite boulders and a face that rarely shifts from a stoic expression—adjusts my stance with clinical detachment. His fingers press against my shoulder blades, forcing them down and back.

"Relax here," he murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle for a man who probably knows fifty ways to kill with his thumbs alone. "Power comes from being loose, not rigid."

I nod, feeling the weight of their expectations. Three hours ago, I was sketching in my studio, the afternoon light spilling across my canvas. Now I'm learning how to put bullets through imaginary men's hearts because this is what being a Zhukov bride means—adapting, surviving, transforming.

I raise the Glock again. The metal warming to my skin. I think of Mikhail's face this morning when he mentioned these lessons—the slight softening around his eyes, the way his jaw clenched when he said, "I won't always be there to protect you."

Inhale. Half-exhale. Squeeze.

The recoil vibrates up my arm, but I'm ready for it this time. I fire again. And again. And again. Until the magazine empties and silence floods back into the space between heartbeats.

Vanya hits the button to retrieve the target, his expression unreadable. When the paper slides toward us, I see his eyebrows lift incrementally—the Zhukov equivalent of shocked disbelief. Eight holes cluster tightly in the center mass, with one through the head.

"Where did you learn to shoot like this?" he demands, suspicion edging his voice.

I shrug, a small smile playing on my lips. "My father may have been paranoid enough to keep me in a gilded cage, but he wasn't stupid enough to leave me defenseless. I've been shooting since I was thirteen."

Yuri makes a sound that might almost be a laugh. "The boss didn't mention this."

"Mikhail doesn't know everything about me," I reply, setting the empty gun down with newfound confidence. "Not yet."

The air shifts as we move from the firing range to the training mats. Here, Yuri takes the lead, demonstrating escapes from various holds and grabs. His movements are fluid, economical, and deadly in their precision. I watch, absorbing every detail, every subtle weight shift and leverage point.

"Remember," he says as his massive hands encircle my wrist in a demonstration, "you are small, but this is an advantage. Use their strength against them."

I nod, committing his words to memory along with the movements. When it's my turn to practice, I throw myself into each technique with a fervor that surprises even me. My body responds with an eagerness I hadn't anticipated as if it's been waiting for this permission to fight back.

"Good," Vanya nods after I successfully break free from his hold for the third time. "But in real situations, you must be faster. More vicious."

I wipe sweat from my brow, auburn strands of hair sticking to my temples. "Show me again."

Hours pass like this—learning the language of violence through repetition and muscle memory.

By the time we finish, every inch of me aches, but there's a new awareness humming beneath my skin.

I understand my body differently now—not just as something to be adorned or desired, but as a weapon I can wield.

As we gather our things to leave, Vanya's phone buzzes. He checks it, his expression shifting minutely before he looks at me.

"Mikhail is back early," he says. "He wants to see your progress."

My heart quickens, though I'm not sure if it's from apprehension or something else entirely—something dangerous that flutters whenever I think of those ice-blue eyes watching me.

I reload the Glock with steady hands, waiting for my husband to arrive, wondering what he'll make of this new version of his bride—one who can put nine bullets exactly where she intends them to go.

The heavy door to the firing range opens with a metallic groan, and I feel Mikhail's presence before I see him.

The air seems to thicken, charged with that particular intensity he carries like a second skin.

His footsteps are measured and deliberate—the predatory grace of a man who owns everything he surveys.

"Show me," he says simply, his voice cutting through the underground chamber's stale air.

I don't turn around immediately. Instead, I steady my breathing, feeling the weight of Mikhail's gaze on my shoulders like a physical touch.

When I finally face him, his expression is unreadable—that careful mask he wears so well.

But his eyes... his eyes are alive with something I can't quite name.

He's changed from his business suit into dark jeans and a black henley that clings to the muscled planes of his chest. Even dressed down, he radiates danger. A thin line of blood decorates his knuckles—fresh enough that I wonder what kind of meeting he just left.

"New target," I tell Vanya, my voice steadier than I feel.

The paper silhouette slides into position with mechanical precision.

Twenty-five yards this time—farther than before.

I'm acutely aware of Mikhail moving closer, positioning himself just behind my left shoulder.

Close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne mixed with something darker—gunpowder, perhaps. Or violence.

"Breathe, kisa ," he murmurs, and the endearment in his accented voice sends heat spiraling down my spine. "Let me see what my wife can do."

The possessiveness in those words should annoy me.

Instead, it ignites something fierce and hungry in my chest. I raise the Glock, muscle memory from countless afternoons at my father's private range flooding back.

But this is different. This isn't about appeasing a paranoid father's fears—this is about survival in a world where being weak means being dead.

I empty the magazine in a steady rhythm, each shot deliberate and controlled. The familiar burn fills my nostrils as smoke curls from the barrel. When the target returns, silence stretches between us like a held breath.

Ten shots. Ten holes clustered so tightly in the center that they could be covered by a playing card.

" Bozhe moy ," Vanya breathes, his earlier composure finally cracking.

Mikhail says nothing for a long moment. I can feel him studying the target, then me, his analytical mind processing this new information. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a note I've never heard before—something that might be pride.

"Again," he commands. "But this time, I want to see you move."

Yuri sets up multiple targets at varying distances while Mikhail watches with the focused attention of a man accustomed to evaluating assets.

"Scenario," Mikhail says, his voice taking on the cold authority I've heard him use with his men. "Three hostiles. You have limited ammunition. Show me how you survive."

I feel my pulse quicken, but not from fear. Something darker unfurls in my chest—anticipation, perhaps. Or the thrill of finally being seen as more than a decorative acquisition.

"How many rounds?" I ask, checking the fresh magazine Yuri slides across the table.

"Six," Mikhail says without hesitation. "And you're moving from cover to cover."

The training area transforms before my eyes. What moments ago felt like a sterile underground range now pulses with imagined danger. I can almost see the shadows where enemies might hide and feel the weight of phantom threats closing in.

I take position behind the concrete barrier, my heart hammering a steady rhythm against my ribs. The first target stands fifteen yards out, the second at twenty, the third angled behind partial cover at twenty-five. In a real scenario, I'd be dead before I could blink. But this isn't real—not yet.

"Begin," Mikhail's voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade.

I move.

The first shot takes the nearest target center mass as I pivot toward the second position. My feet find their rhythm across the concrete floor, muscle memory from years of ballet translating into fluid motion. Duck behind cover. Breathe. Rise. Fire.

The second target drops.

But it's the third that will test me—the one positioned to simulate a sniper's advantage. I sprint across the open space, feeling exposed and vulnerable. In my peripheral vision, I catch Mikhail's stillness, the way he tracks my movement with a predatory focus.

I slide behind the final barrier, concrete scraping against my shoulder. One shot left. One chance.

I close my eyes for a heartbeat, visualizing the angle, the distance. When I emerge from cover, the world narrows to the space between the gun's sight and my target's center mass.

The final shot echoes through the chamber like thunder.

When the smoke clears and the targets return, the silence stretches taut as a wire. Three clean kills. Two rounds to spare.

"Where?" Mikhail's voice is deadly quiet, but I hear something else underneath—something that makes my skin flush hot. "Where did you learn to move like that?"

I set the gun down carefully, meeting his gaze without flinching. "You're not the only one with secrets, husband."

His eyes narrow, and I watch him process this new variable in whatever equation he's been calculating since our wedding day. Vanya and Yuri exchange glances, but neither speaks.

"My father made sure I could defend myself if his enemies ever found me. Ballet for grace. Shooting for precision. Wing Chun for when bullets aren't available."

Mikhail steps closer, and I fight the urge to retreat.

"Dangerous," he murmurs, though whether he's referring to my skills or something else entirely, I can't tell.

"Good," I whisper back, holding his stare. "I'd hate to be boring."

Something shifts in his expression—a crack in that carefully maintained control. For a moment, I glimpse the man beneath the monster, and what I see there makes my breath catch.

Heat. Hunger. And something that looks almost like respect.